Detour Down a Rabbit Hole
by Ethelinda's Window
Summary: Sherlock has been abducted in Cardiff and now it's John's turn to play the hero. Crossover with Torchwood, inasmuch as they're convenient plot-devices.
1. The Pool of Tears

**Title**: Detour Down A Rabbit Hole

**Author**: Ethelinda's Window

**Chapter 1/3**: The Pool of Tears**  
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**Rated**: MA, for language and to be safe**  
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**Spoilers**: Maybe. But there are three episodes. Seriously, just watch them.**  
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**Crossover**: Torchwood. But you don't have to know it to get the story. I don't even know it that well and so apologise for any misrepresentation.**  
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**Warnings**: Drug use (abuse), language, weird narrative perspective. No slash but be my guest to read it like that if you want to.

**A/N**:Third time lucky - I don't know why, but my computer's going nuts and not registering that I'm posting this at all. So I'm going to remove it from the 'crossover' category. Hopefully this works...

Okay, so I have to tell you – the idea for this fic? My dog. Yup. When she was attacked by another one and I had yanked her away and started applying pressure to the puncture wounds, all my brain kept doing was supplying useless information like "Subscapularis!" and "Granulation tissue!" I mean really. Shut up.

The rest? I have no idea; just a vehicle to convey my amusing experience. =P And it was 4am. Nuff said.

**Points for**: Guessing where my chapter titles have come from. You only get one point though since it's freaking obvious.

**Disclaimer**: I own it. I own it all. I _am_ Moffat and Gatiss. Or a broke and bored Uni student. You decide.

* * *

The clattering of shoes war for dominance with your uncharacteristic stridor. You're remotely aware of the back of your throat constricting under the influence of nothing short of pure panic. Had you not been running, you dispassionately observe, you'd be hyperventilating.

At first you think you spot him, just for a moment. Rounding the corner you've seen the silhouette of a long dark coat, but the dimensions are wrong, the hair is wrong. He turns to face you and it's all wrong. He's looking at you with _that_ look. You're a doctor and you know _that_ look. It's the look that surgeons give families before they invite them into the 'quiet room'. You know to be afraid of the 'quiet room'.

"Jack?" You almost careen into the Captain but he has your shoulders. He steadies you and you steady yourself.

"We think he's alive," he knows you need facts. "Ianto and Gwen are looking for another way in."

You realise he's talking about the hole in the wall. You hadn't realised it before but it now gapes at you, laptop sized and ominous. You suddenly don't want to know.

Don't be stupid. Of course you want to know. You look back at the Captain.

"He's in there?" Your military instinct is heightened by the epaulettes on the other man's shoulders.

The Captain nods and hands you a torch.

The wall is made of stone, like the rest of the ruin; solid limestone blocks. The hole was made recently, you notice – an entire block chiselled from its mates. The part of your brain not freaking out realises it's quite clever and wonders how Jack ever found him. The part of your brain that is freaking out tells the other part to shut up.

Awkwardly jamming your head along with the torch into the other side of the wall, it's not at all what you expected. It's not just another room, it's a cavern – a tall, thin cavern that stretches from the roof to the ground at least four floors below. And below's where you spot him.

It's an odd angle, to be sure, but an unmistakable one. They've thrown in four fluorescent light tubes that cast a sickly green glow on his figure. The cavern's filled with about a foot of water, and the lights gently float on top like wary will-o'-the-wisps.

The stench is putrid. You know it well, both from the public toilets at the rugby stadium and the ill equipped Afghan field hospital right after a mass admittance of casualties.

His hair's matted and filled with God-knows-what, but it's his hair. The only other features you can make out are his knees, since his legs are pulled up towards his body – good man, conserving body heat – and one arm that's lying softly by his side, as if he's about to push against the ground and get up.

He doesn't get up.

"Sherlock!" You know your voice will echo, but it hits you smack in the face and boxes your ears. "Sherlock!"

"He never responded when we called." Jack 's still standing behind you, his voice is resigned.

Fuck that.

"SHERLOCK!"

A cacophony erupts behind you. You remain quiet while you hear what the owners of the new footfalls have to say.

"There's no other way in," it's the Welsh woman and she's breathing hard.

"There are other openings but they're inaccessible," Ianto sounds less panicked but no less despairing. "Whole floors have collapsed. This is the only access point."

"Sherlock." The word comes to you like a tardy echo and you're not quite sure if you've actually heard it. You wait a few moments. Perhaps you did imagine it.

"Sherlock?" Your voice does not smash at the air, but this time is sent purposefully towards the figure below. It doesn't move. You breathe through your mouth to dampen the sound.

The others must have noticed the change in your voice, for they remain blissfully silent.

You will it forward with a mental chant of 'Come on, come on, come on,' which increases in frequency the longer you wait. It becomes a monotonic hum in your mind. But then you hear it.

"Sherlock?" That's not your voice.

It's a noise so delicate you consider second guessing yourself.

You discard the consideration.

You rip your shoulders and torch from the small opening and give just as much thought to your jacket as it's discarded on the floor.

"I can fit," you tell them, because even though the hole's small, you're sure it's do-able and there's not enough time to chisel out a bigger one.

You expect them to tell you no. You expect some kind of resistance because three years of living with the man sitting at the bottom of the room-come-cavern next door has taught you the necessity of validating your argument. Instead it's as if you've given them life - a purpose that they're all too happy to assist you with.

You realise they're humouring you.

The hole is small. Shit it's small, and the rope that's tied in an attempted harness-fashion isn't helping matters. One of the knots is digging into your hip as you wriggle back, inch by inch. Bloody hell it hurts. Gwen is folding bits of cloth and rope into the non-space around you, like stuffing a sleeping bag back into its original carrier. The universal flaw of the sleeping bag – it's almost impossible to repack.

Your hips are free, even if they are tingling with the abusive effort. Now it's just your shoulders. Shit. Your medical training tells you that when a baby comes out of the uterus, it's the shoulders that present the greatest problem. You flash-back to the few emergency birthings you've attended. Once the shoulders are out it's clear sailing and the baby practically shwooshes out. That's it, just the shoulders and it's smooth sailing.

The gunshot wound doesn't help. Has it ever? For a few long moments you think you're stuck. Know it.

"Shit." Gwen seems to fully understand and starts shoving your shoulders closer to your head and through the opening.

Fuck; They're going to dislocate. Your legs provide leverage on the other side of the wall, and the limestone cuts at your skin as your shoulders are freed. Swoosh. Just like that. Gwen hands you the torch.

You hold tightly to the edge of the opening. "You got it?" Gwen steps behind Ianto, who's behind Jack, all three acting as belay. They nod and take the slack.

You've abseiled before, but this is agony. The improvised rope harness cuts into your groin and shoulders, but it's better being too tight than too loose. The haphazard lowering of your belay crew means that you miss your footing a couple of times and connect your knee with the wall.

You judge your distance from the ground. Getting a good look is difficult, but you've gone down about two stories. You hope you don't land on Sherlock's head. He wouldn't appreciate it.

"Keep going, that's it, half way there," you instruct your crew through the earpiece they slapped on you haphazardly. You know they can't see your progress. You hope the rope is long enough.

Bloody hell the smell is rotten. Really, truly rotten. You really, seriously, know that smell but you're refusing to acknowledge what it means. Your body is disallowing deep breaths because of the insult of it and you briefly entertain the thought of telling your belay team to stop, give you a moment please. But only very briefly.

By the last floor you've given up trying to prevent scraping against the wall, and instead prepare yourself for landing.

"Five feet...Three feet. Almost there. One foot, come on!"

"Okay, let it go," you hear Jack instruct through the ear piece, and your feet splash into fetid water below. It comes up to mid-calf but not before splashing up almost to your face. A single drop lands on your lip and you notice vaguely that there's a salty undertone. You try to ignore it. You pull down on the rope to give you some slack and point the torch at the figure that the green luminescent bars are lighting so defectively.

White light doesn't reveal much better. He's still in the same position as the one you saw looking down on him from above. Knees curled up, his right arm's by his side and his left's tucked to his chest. But there's something you didn't expect; His eyes are open.

Your suddenly become very aware of your heart for a few beats before it resumes its place inside your chest.

'Atrial premature beat', a disassociated part of your brain supplies.

Shut up.

He's breathing. Oh lord he's breathing. Bradypnoeic. Shallow. But breathing.

"He's breathing," you commentate for the benefit of the others.

"Fuck me." That's Jack.

You crouch down, subconsciously keeping as much of your body out of the water as possible. The water that you know is more than just water – the murky, viscous properties aren't the only clues. Amorphous masse, some as large as a football, are disturbed and move with the new current. Your eye catches something that looks suspiciously like...a syringe?

You're glad you're wearing your solid hiking boots. That's the last thought that runs through your head before the part of your brain that you really want in gear kicks into it and sends you a stream of information to be catalogues and triaged.

Carotid pulse present – weak, thready, approximately 70 beats per minute. Unclothed. At least it looks that way, you can't tell from below the waist to mid-thigh because he's sitting in the gunk. Potential for: Hypothermia, water immersion injury, epidermis sloughing leading to skin infection, aspiration pneumonia, shock, urinary tract infection, malnutrition, dehydration...you will your brain to stop when you realise there's nothing medically you can do for him at the moment. Your goal is now simple. Get him out.

His eyes may be open but they don't look at you. No wonder, you think, you're shining a light in his face. You point the torch just above his head, trying to rebound the light so you can both see each other equally. It's a bit of a lost cause but it's the best you've got at the moment. His face is relatively clean – he's probably attempted to keep it that way, but it makes the dark circles beneath his eyes incredibly prominent, especially in the current lighting.

His mouth is slightly open, as if poised to make a comment, but none is forthcoming. He still hasn't moved from when you saw him first.

You steady your breathing.

"Sherlock?" It's the tone you've used countless times before, but never in association with his name. Not like this. It's the type that, as a doctor, you're expected to perfect and pull out during tense moments like after treating an OD in Emergency.

His eyes flicker.

"Sherlock?" He repeats. His voice is nothing like you remember, which is probably why you weren't really sure if you heard it the first time. It's thin and only incorporates vocal resonance on one syllable. Still, you'll take it. Bloody hell you'll take it.

"That's it," you realise you're essentially cooing. Whatever. "Sherlock, it's me. It's John."

"Sherlocks'me...s'John." He's echoing you, you realise. The currently superfluous part of your brain supplies you with 'echolalia', and 'where was that word when you needed it in fourth-year exams?' Your mouth vomits forth a half-laugh-half-sob noise that you stifle when he flinches.

"Sorry. That's right," you move slowly to place your arm on his shoulder, "It's John."

"Aahs'right. S'John." The pressure you're providing on his shoulder encourages him to turn his head towards you, but there is still no recognition in his eyes. He's cold. Very cold. Definitely hypothermia but you can't do much at the moment. Not just yet. External body heat would be a good idea if you knew what his reaction would be were you to pull him close.

You keep your hand on his shoulder. It takes effort, you can tell, but he slowly focuses his eyes on the warm contact. Another couple of moments before he realises the contact has an appendage and another couple still to realise that the appendage belongs to a body.

His eyes finally find your face and you can almost feel the concentration he's exuding. It's fine, you tell yourself, just the effects of the hypothermia. He'll be fine.

You try to contort your face into something that resembles a smile. His mouth is open again and this time he's attempting to say something. The something, though, seems stuck in his throat.

"Hello Sherlock," you supply. His concentration increases, but without observable results. "It's alright now," you congratulate yourself on your ability to infuse the phrase with a matter-of-fact overtone. "It's time to go home."

He's still looking at you intensely, and you're reminded of the countless times you've been the recipient of that look. Almost that look.

Go on, Sherlock, that's it. Deduce where I've been and how I got here. Tell me that I've been searching for over a week with a team that's almost as dysfunctionally functional as we are. Notice that I would have been searching for longer if I'd have known you never turned up to that conference in Cardiff. Come on, Sherlock, it's all there for the deducing.

His head begins oscillating slightly left and right. You're not quite sure if he's trying to tell you something or if it's involuntary.

"It's time to go home," you tell him again, this time providing a bit of pull under his arm to encourage him to stand alongside you. You figure it's a long shot but it's worth a try.

His head-shaking heightens and you release the pressure, knowing that forcing anything can lead to nowhere good.

Shit.

You crouch down again, getting close to his face and notice just how dilated his pupils really are. You try a different tack.

"Sherlock, can you tell me where you are?" Yep, if all else fails, head for the concussion questions.

It seems a little too complex to comprehend because he's not responding. But he is looking at your face and you try to shine some more light on it so he can see it more clearly. It means that his is almost lost in darkness though, and your legs are beginning to burn from holding your weight in so awkward a position.

"John," the name comes out of the darkness and you can't help shifting the light towards his face to be sure it was he who actually said it. He's staring at you again, as if he's just realised you're there and you notice a spark of recognition.

You smile, genuinely this time, and nod.

"That's right, it's me. It's John." You don't care that the others are witnessing your palpable relief.

"John," he repeats, a little more urgently.

"Yes, Sherlock," you place your hand under his arm again in preparation for a second trial at standing.

"John," his voice is louder now, but it's filled with a kind of despair completely foreign to the individual who's producing it.

"It's alright, Sherlock," and you hate yourself for the empty platitude but it's really all you currently have.

"John!" He's panicking now, but you've gotten him half way out of the water without him even realising. The skin that's been soaking in the water is raw. Infection moves from your 'potential' to your 'likely' list. He's clothed, you notice. Underwear that was probably white in a previous manifestation. You realise exactly how thin he is, and malnutrition joins in with the 'likelies'.

"It's fine, Sherlock, it's time to go now."

But he's not listening, not really, and now he's breathing faster. Probably doesn't help that he's standing for the first time in god-knows how long. Orthostatic reflexes are probably kicking in.

"John, s'not my fault!" He's holding onto your arm that's grasping his shoulder, but can't yet stand fully upright.

You're not completely sure you've heard correctly, the words are heavy and laborious but incredibly urgent.

"Of course not, Sherlock," but you're now busy assessing whether it really is a good idea to harness him with the rope that's currently around you and haul him up separately, or try your luck and go together.

"It wasn' me!" His legs are trembling with the exertion of standing and you realise you need to make up your mind now.

"Of course it wasn't you, Sherlock," but you hardly register what you're saying. "Jack, can you bring the two of us up together?"

"Interesting you should ask," Jack's voice is deceptively casual, "Ianto's just rigged up a pulley gizmo, so it may just be doable." You could kiss Ianto.

Next is how do you get a six-foot-something skeleton with flesh (because that's really all there is at the moment), attached to you and up four storeys to the exit? One thing's certain, he's certainly not going piggy-back style because there's no way his arms are capable of holding his weight, slight though it may be, for four storeys of reverse abseiling.

That really only leaves one configuration.

The acute panic seems to have left him, but he's muttering "It wasn' me!" over and over.

"Can you take up the slack?" You hope that Ianto's pully system is as awesome as it is in your mind's eye.

"That okay?" The rope is pulled taught and you nod. Then roll your eyes.

"Yep."

"It wasn' me!"

"Sherlock, look at me," You are now in full command mode. You have a job to do and if there's one thing you know how to do it's doing jobs. That sounds ridiculous but it puts you in a state of calm. "Look at me now. That's it. This is going to hurt but I need you to hold on, okay? Hold on very tightly and don't let go. Understand? Sherlock?"

He's a little shocked at your tone, you think, which is maybe why he doesn't answer straight away. When he does it's merely to repeat your name again, but you take that as a yes and go with it.

You place his arms around your neck and wrap your left arm around his back. Your right will be busy holding onto the rope so you both don't get turned upside down during the ascent.

"Okay, let's go," you instruct and a moment later there's the familiar pull of the improvised harness.

In the brief minutes since you've been down there you've forgotten how painful it is, and the discomfort is compounded by the lanky weight you're struggling to keep from the wall's surface.

"You good?" A voice in your ear after you're about a metre up.

"Yep," you manage, because you can't really afford to breathe out completely.

Progress is slow. Sherlock's right leg has come up to try to wrap around your waist, but it's not finding very good purchase. You try to reposition to provide a better tethering point. Your arms are shaking.

One floor.

"It wasn' me," a plaintive voice in your ear startles you.

"I know," you think that this is really not a good time for a conversation.

"John! It wasn' me!" Bloody hell.

"I know, Sherlock, it's fine. Please shut up." You kick yourself. You're supposed to have more self control than that. "It's alright," you add because you can't really end a conversation on 'shut up'.

His low litany of "It wasn' me!" starts up again, but they don't seem to necessitate a reply so you just concentrate on hanging the hell on.

Two floors.

His arms convulse around your neck. You think it's just a shiver, but it happens again, stronger.

Not for the first time in your acquaintance do you have a sliver of inkling into how his brain must function when on an 'exciting' case. Instead of being upset, your overtaxed mind is grinning, because your suspicions concerning what substance he's been exposed to have been fuelled.

He convulses again and this time it's strong enough to break his chanting and elicit a sharp intake of breath and weak moan.

"S'alright, Sherlock," you really can't afford the energy to speak at the moment but you know you need to.

Three floors.

Almost there. You're almost there. How the hell you're going to be able to fit back through that hole you have no idea, but you figure it's a secondary concern compared with everything else. Like how you're going to get Sherlock through when your belay crew are busy...well...belaying.

'Cross bridges,' you remind yourself, but don't bother to finish the idiom.

Your arms are on fire, your groin is on fire and your legs are _on fire_ and you hope to crap you don't drop to the bottom and have to start all over again because you seriously don't think that you'll be able to do it. Or survive the fall.

Don't think about falling.

"Almost there," you alert the others, and finally you draw almost level with the opening. Ianto has certainly managed to MacGyver up a crude pulley system but you have no idea where the parts came from. It's not like they were well-equipped when they set out on this expedition. God, that felt like a lifetime ago.

They pull you as high as they can and start tethering the rope while you try to talk Sherlock off your shoulders.

Tethering complete (God please let it hold), Jack helps you pry Sherlock off your body and through the damn hole. It's proving incredibly tricky.

"Come on, Sherlock," you try, whilst peeling an arm from your shoulder, but it's not exactly eliciting the required response. He convulses again. And again. And holds tighter.

You're in agony. You need to get him off you but if anything he's now less likely with Jack pulling at his shoulders.

"Let me try," Gwen gently manoeuvres Jack aside and places her hands on Sherlock's shoulders. "Come on now, sweetheart, it's time to let go."

You could laugh. You don't think anyone, aside from maybe his mother, has ever called Sherlock 'sweetheart'. He just isn't a 'sweetheart' type of person. And yet from Gwen it sounds...right. You imaging that she's probably had a lot of experience coaxing friends from bars at three in the morning before safely depositing them into their beds. Good old Gwen, you think.

After about a minute Sherlock's grip begins to relax.

"That's it," you contribute to the litany of low words coming from the Welsh woman. "That's it, that's right. Good good good." You doubt if you're actually contributing anything. Whatever. It's working.

"That's it sweetheart, just duck your head like that, okay, I've got you, that's it."

Gwen will make a really good mother one day. You try to remember to tell her that when all this is over.

With Gwen pulling and you pushing, you finally manage to fit the square peg into the stupidly small hole. Then it's your turn. They have to dismantle the pulley system before you're able to get out, and even then it's not easy. You're once again reminded of the childbirth analogue, but this time you're coming the right way out. Jack and Ianto provide the forceps and suction and you wonder how your skull's going to look afterwards. You almost laugh again. Your shoulders pop through and the urge to laugh dies. You're almost sick. Pain. Bloody hell there's a lot of pain. But you don't care. Because Sherlock's having a quiet little panic attack just a few feet over, even with Gwen doing her best to assuage it.

You're finally pulled free and it takes a moment for you to make sure you've not done any serious damage. You can move. Good enough. You grab your discarded jacket.

"Sherlock?" Your body's practically shaking with exhaustion. You kneel down next to him, sitting on your left leg while the other's tucked up against your chest.

The light isn't strong out here, but it is natural, courtesy of a nonexistent roof that probably disappeared hundreds of years ago. Despite his pitiful appearance, he looks marginally better than he did in the pit. Raw, emaciated, cold and caked in god-knows-what, but he's a little more aware. A little more with it.

You notice the track marks running inside his left elbow and your heart sinks. You go to put your jacket around him but another is offered instead. It's Jacks, and its size and comfort far outweigh your own. You take it gratefully and wrap it around his frail frame,

"John," he answers through laboured breaths, and you don't think he's ever said your name so much in one day without it being followed by an imperious command.

You long for an imperious command.

"That's right, Sherlock, it's me, and you're okay." Could you _think _of a more banal statement? Nevertheless, they seemed to be working. His breathing begins to slow, even if a slight hum comes with each exhalation.

He convulses again, a sharp movement originating at the shoulders and spreading down his entire body. His face crumples and he lets out an involuntary sob.

Your heart doesn't know whether to break or to leap for joy when he catches himself and tries to replace his impassive mask. But the mask is cracked and ruined and there's nothing for it but to create a new one. You know that it's going to take time, but it's time you have.

He looks at you again and you place your hands on his shoulders, rubbing gently.

"You're going to be fine," you say again, and now you believe it. At least you try to. Because you've reminded yourself that worse things have happened to a person (you've seen some of those things) and they have managed to get up and move on. And if anyone can do it, Sherlock can. It seems like an empty platitude but you've sure you've never had a truer thought.

"John," he says again, but this time he seems to be asking for permission to sleep, because his eyelids are drooping and his eyes are beginning to roll backwards.

"You need to stay awake," your doctor instincts reply. His breath intakes sharply as he tries to comply, but it's a useless battle and he lowers his forehead to rest on your knee that's pushed up against your chest. You let it rest there.

'Tableau,' your brain supplies, and you tell it that if it interrupts once more you're going for a lobotomy.

* * *

So where the hell did the second person narrative come from? My overtaxed, overtired brain, that's where. I didn't even notice I was doing it 'till about a paragraph in. What the hell? My thoughts exactly. I never set out to do it, so I'm sorry if it's weird and disjointed. I thought I'd run with it though since I've never written anything in second person, aside from poetry, so do let me know how I can improve it. =)


	2. The Mad TeaParty

**Title**: Detour Down A Rabbit Hole

**Chapter 2/3**: A Mad Tea-Party

**Rated**: MA, for language and to be safe

**Spoilers**: Maybe. But there are three episodes. Seriously, just watch them.

**Crossover**: Torchwood. But you don't have to know it to get the story. I don't even know it that well and so apologise for any misrepresentation.

**Summary**: Sherlock has been abducted in Cardiff and now it's John's turn to play the hero.

**Warnings**: Drug use (abuse), language, weird narrative perspective. No slash but be my guest to read it like that if you want to.

**A/N: **Yay for reviews! They make my day brighter

**Points for**: Correcting my pharmacology. I hate pharmacology.

**Disclaimer**: I make money by sticking needles into other people's arms, not playing with other people's intellectual property. The latter is purely for fun. The former for fun _and_ money.

* * *

"What's the opposite of clean, Sherlock?"

Your head, just moments ago so close to slipping off your arm, now jerks to attention and is fully awake. Ten hours. Ten hours since you and the others made it back to the 'Hub', as they called it. After falling asleep on your knee he hasn't said a word. Until now.

"What?" You stumble off the steps you were sitting (sprawling) on and over to where he's lying. The slab-turned-hospital bed where they were convinced they could monitor him better.

Well...at least it wasn't a hospital. Quite aside from the fact that you know Sherlock hates hospitals, you know what kind of questions the doctors will be asking, and you know you'll never be able to give them the truth. Hell, you're still trying to get your head around it yourself.

Aliens. Huh. Who'd have thought.

But that's not what's on your mind at the moment.

"What was that, Sherlock?"

His eyes stare off slightly to the left, away from you since your instinct is to stand on his right.

Did he even speak at all? Or did you dream it?

"What's the opposite of clean, Sherlock?" His voice is harsh and dry, but it's his. His eyes flick back and forward once.

Not dreaming then. Your brows furrow because you have absolutely no idea where this is coming from.

Your periphery notices Owen coming down the steps from the half-level up, but he hangs back. You briefly acknowledge the doctor's presence before turning your attention back to your patient. Your friend. Your best. Friend.

You take his right hand – careful not to disturb the IV that's feeding him a steady diet of saline and antibiotics. His other arm's being left untouched thanks to the recent perforations laddering the veins. Best to leave that alone for now, Owen had said.

"Sherlock, can you hear me?"

He doesn't respond, and instead keeps staring at an indistinct spot to his left.

You rub at your forehead. That can't be it. You can't have been waiting ten hours for a senseless question that he's asking himself.

You decide to check his Glasgow Coma score again. His eyes are open. Good. That's a four. You're going with a score for three for the verbal - intelligible nonsense. Now motor.

"Sherlock, can you squeeze my hand?"

No response.

"Come on, Sherlock," you give his hand a tap, folding his fingers around your own to encourage the following of your request, "Squeeze my hand."

No response. You try something different.

"Look at me, Sherlock. Come on."

No response. You sigh. And pull out a pen. You don't want to do it, you really don't.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock, but I'm going to have to cause you a bit of pain now." The words fall from your mouth automatically. You understands why it's a sentence that relatives of brain injured patients come to hate.

You press the blunt end of the pen between his eyebrows. The last few times you'd done it he had withdrawn from you, moaning, sometimes trying to bat you away. Got angry. Angry was good. Angry meant he was still there.

But this response horrifies you. His arms, previously lying passively by his side are pulled up against his chest while his hands form tight fists and his wrists fold inwards. 'Like a kangaroo impersonation' echoes a registrar's voice from a distant memory. Shit shit shit shit –

"No no no no," you reach for his hands in the hopes that you can just pull them back down.

"Shit," Owen breathes, moving down the steps "Decorticate response."

"We should have taken him to the hospital," your brain begins to panic. You know this is bad. Very bad. You can't remember the exact area of the brain that needs to be damaged for this reflex to be elicited, but you know, quite simply, it's bad.

Calm down. Steady your breathing. You're no help like this.

Owen's leaping around waving strange objects in Sherlock's direction. You distantly note that they're probably diagnostic but it's taking a couple of moments for your brain to kick back into gear. It finally does and you skim through the possibilities.

Stroke, brain bleed, increased intracranial pressure, hepatic encephalopathy...wait.

"Owen, the drugs you detected, you said it was a combination."

"Which is why we couldn't treat pharmacologically," Owen's not really paying attention to you, but at least he's playing along.

"What if this is being caused by hepatic encephalopathy? It can, it's possible, he's had enough drugs in his system to bring down an elephant."

"I'm following," even though he was busy taking blood through the cannula in Sherlock's hand.

"I think GHB may have been primary."

"Okay..."

"When I landed in the water I got a drop on my lip. It tasted salty. I thought it was odd at the time because there was so much other gunk in there as well. The drug was in the water. He was obviously heavily sedated, almost catatonic, was repeating what I was saying and had some minor convulsions. All point directly to GHB."

"And to five hundred other drugs. About four hundred and ninety nine of which we found in his system."

Twelve, your brain wants to correct.

"Yes but hepatic encephalopathy, of which this reflex is a symptom, can be caused by screwing around with GABA receptors and that's exactly what GHB does."

Owen thinks for a few moments.

"He's not showing any sign of increased intracranial pressure...You remember all that from med school?"

"I've been googling."

Owen sighs.

"So what are you suggesting?"

"Flumazenil."

"That...could go down badly."

"He's getting brain damage."

You count two heart beats.

"Fair call."

Owen turns away to, presumably, find what you suggest. You hope you're right. You seriously do because you know the effects of flumazenil. Usually used for benzodiazepine overdose, you just hope you're not going to make matters worse. You almost hope that Owen doesn't have any.

You notice that Sherlock's wrists have become more relaxed, and you stretch them out, trying to ignore the reality of what they're telling you. Stretching out the fingers on his right hand, you note with a sinking feeling that they retract almost immediately. You tense your jaw and try again. They refuse to remain relaxed and you let out a frustrated sigh.

And catch him staring at you. Right at you, and you gape at the sight.

"Sherlock!" But he's gone again, and his gaze slides past you to somewhere over your shoulder.

And you realise that his fingers weren't closing involuntarily, he was trying to squeeze your hand. And you were getting annoyed at it.

"Oh Sherlock, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," you grab his hand again and try to make it fold around yours. "You can squeeze it now, go on, squeeze my hand."

But it's too late. He's already slipped beyond your reach.

Owen comes back with the drug. Oh please let it work.

"How much?"

"It says point two milligrams over thirty seconds but we don't know how it'll react with the other drugs in his system."

"Shall we go for point one then?"

By this time you know you're both flying blind.

"Sure."

Owen injects the drug through the IV line. You both watch intently. Nothing.

"Try another point one."

Owen does as you say, as you hold onto Sherlock's hand, willing it to move.

Still nothing.

"We'll try another point one then we'll wait for a bit."

Owen complied. It took thirty seconds.

The first sign is his deep inhalation and an indication that his eyes have come back online. They dart around the room trying to make sense of where they are and, presumably, how they got there.

"Sherlock," your voice is low but this time he's well aware of it, taking only a few seconds to seek out and lock onto your face. You smile but it's not a complete victory; you're not out of the woods yet.

He seems to be looking to you for answers and you're all too eager to give them to him.

"We're in Cardiff, in...well, a base, of sorts." This is probably not helping, you realise. "You okay?" And you know it's a trite question but you need to ask it anyway.

He swallows and grimaces, and you reach for the water bottle you've been using. Lifting his head gently, you try to tip some water into his mouth, briefly apologising for the lack of straw, but as soon as it touches his lips he pulls away, wiping at his mouth savagely.

"Okay, alright," the water bottle resumes its original place. "Sherlock, look at me."

He does and you want to whoop for joy, but his expression isn't very comforting. For the first time throughout this whole ordeal he looks absolutely petrified.

"John I'm sorry," he reaches up to grab at the front of your shirt. His voice is barely a scratchy whisper but it's infused with intense sentiment. Catching his hand you shake your head.

"There's nothing to be sorry for, Sherlock, it's fine now." You smile slightly as you repeat a phrase you used so long ago. "It's all fine."

He gasps as though trying to catch his breath and you're broken by the misery you see in his face.

"It wasn't me." That phrase again. Perhaps this time you can elicit its meaning.

"What wasn't you, Sherlock?" Your voice is soft. Don't freak him out.

But it's a lost cause because his face shatters and he lets out a moan that crescendos into a furious scream. The sound dies out but his face remains contorted in agony. It's several moments before he takes an enormous breath and bellows a second time. You lean closer to him, despite the assault on your ears.

"Sherlock, listen to me, this is the drugs you're feeling. You have several in your system and they're making you feel horrible, but it'll pass. Alright? Sherlock?"

Owen steps forward, perhaps to say something, but Sherlock's quicker.

"Piss off!" He screams into his face. When Owen doesn't immediately comply, he tries to shove at him, before attempting to rip the IV out of his hand.

"Sherlock, stop," you try to get the situation under control. You knew this could happen, now deal with it.

"FUCK OFF!" He pushes at you blindly.

"SHERLOCK!" You command, because you really don't want to put that cannula back in; it was difficult enough the first time.

He's breathing hard, but stops momentarily at your voice. Small miracles. You use the moment to your advantage.

"Sherlock, you're in withdrawal. Everything you're feeling is drug-induced." It's not entirely true, you think, but if he's with it enough it'll give him something to hold on to.

He's struggling, you can see, to think through the haze of anxiety and to trust what you're saying. His fist is still grasping the IV line, but he's not actively trying to pull it out. Keep it logical, you think. Stick to the facts.

"You could be feeling a lot of things at the moment, anxiety, nausea, anger, agitation. Sound about right?"

You know the answer, but you need him to think about it himself.

He doesn't look at you, but after a moment, he nods quickly, once.

Owen makes a small movement and Sherlock's eyes snap around to meet him. The look that your friend is sending the other doctor is savage.

"That's Owen, Sherlock. He's a doctor too." On second thoughts maybe you should have left that part out. From the way he's positioned it looks like Sherlock's about to leap out of the bed and into Owen's throat.

"Maybe you should give us a bit." You raise your eyes to convey your thoughts to the other man but he's already taking your advice. You're beginning to really love this team.

"Sherlock look at me." His eyes are slowly pulled from Owen's retreating form to your face. He swallows.

"Do you want some water?" His head shakes once. "Okay. Do you want to lie down?" Another sharp shake of the head. Okay. Breathe. You can do this.

"Where's Mrs Hudson?" You don't expect the question and it takes you a moment to answer.

"Uh, she's at home. At Baker Street." His eyes regain their intensity.

"Are you sure?" His breathing jumps up a notch but he manages to make the question sound like a command. Excellent.

You try to infuse your expression with utmost trustworthiness. "Yes, Sherlock. I spoke with her about an hour ago."

"Was she ever here, in Cardiff?" His tone is urgent.

So he was listening to you before, good, but you have no idea where this questioning is going.

"No, she stayed at Baker Street. Why?" His eyes dart away from you.

"They said they'd-" his breath hitches. "They said if I didn't they'd do it to her." The statement comes out in a rush. "She was screaming down at me. Screaming at me to help her." His eyes are shining and his jaw is clenched.

"She was never there, Sherlock," you supply. You know because you've been talking to Sarah and Sarah's been with Mrs Hudson for days now. "You must have been hallucinating."

"No!" He almost bites at you.

"Okay..." you say, because you don't really know where to go from there.

"Shape shifter." A low voice from the half-level up supplies. It's Jack.

Sherlock whips his head around to face him. "What?"

"The gang that took you. Some are human, some...not so much."

You weren't really planning on telling him this intriguing piece of information until his head was firmly back on solid ground. There goes that idea.

He's thinking hard at that one. Really hard. But you don't spot disbelief in his features.

"That's how they got to me," his voice has almost dropped to a whisper. "She was there. She was begging me to help her." And all at once you know he's no longer in the room, but reliving the moment when the 'invincible' Sherlock Holmes was reduced to 'not-quite-so-invincible anymore'. You pull out your phone.

"Sherlock, look at me," you say, dialling the number. He complies but still looks incredibly lost. "Mrs Hudson is fine. She's at home in Baker Street. Unless she's out at the shops..." you add, because it's really taking quite a long time for her to answer the phone.

For a moment your heart pounds in your chest. What if Sherlock's right? What if she was taken and you hadn't known about it? It certainly made more sense than the shape shifter idea.

"Hello?" A bleary voice tumbles into your ear, and then you remember that it's the middle of the night and the last time you spoke to your landlady she'd said she was going to sleep. Oh yeah.

"Mrs Hudson, I'm sorry to wake you, but..."

"Mrs Hudson?" Sherlock's already yanked the phone out of your hand and presses it hard to his ear. You notice his hand shaking but can't quite tell if it's drug or adrenaline-induced. You can hear her tinny yet emphatic reply.

"Sherlock! Is that you?" Sherlock almost collapses with relief and you steady one arm out of instinct. He doesn't seem to notice.

His face is screwed up and his jaw is clenched tight, as if trying to hold back a flood of uncharacteristic sentiment. He doesn't speak for a few moments.

"Sherlock?" Mrs Hudson is unaware of the detective's difficulty.

"Yes," he bites out, trying to retain his composure, but it's a lost cause because a contorted sob escapes with the word.

"Oh, sweetheart," Mrs Hudson breathes, and it's enough to break him. His shoulders are shaking and it has nothing to do with drug-induced convulsions. The only noise he makes is when he exhales and gasps desperately for air, but you know what's happening. For the first time that you've seen in your three-year acquaintance, Sherlock Holmes, self-confessed sociopath, unequivocal genius, is crying.

And it seems Mrs Hudson knows too, because you hear her take a deep breath through a suddenly mucous-filled nose. She's crying with him.

You feel your throat tighten and a sting behind your eyes and decide it's time to bring this to a close before you all lose it and become a sobbing mess. You gently take the phone from his grasp and clear your throat.

"Hiya," you say gently, trying to compose yourself. "I'll uh...call you later, yeah?"

Another sharp, wet intake of breath from the other side of England.

"Alright dear. Do take care of him."

You smile, even though you know she can't see it.

"Always."

* * *

Please please please review - I'm open to all types of criticism; grammar, characterisation, medical, Britpicking, anything you can think of. And then I'm more likely to read and review your stories as well =D.

_Disclaimer for the medically minded_ – I hate pharmacology, so it's probably all wrong. However, I do know you can't use flumazenil for GHB overdose, so I tried to loophole it by using it for the hepatic encephalopathy instead. It's a tenuous leap, but who cares. They make stupid and tenuous and nonexistent leaps in House all the time. Nevertheless, tell me if it's wrong!


	3. Waking

**Title**: Detour Down A Rabbit Hole

**Chapter 3/3**: Waking

**Rated**: MA, for language and to be safe

**Spoilers**: Maybe. But there are three episodes. Seriously, just watch them.

**Crossover**: Torchwood. But you don't have to know it to get the story. I don't even know it that well and so apologise for any misrepresentation.

**Summary**: Sherlock has been abducted in Cardiff and now it's John's turn to play the hero.

**Warnings**: Drug use (abuse), language, weird narrative perspective. No slash but be my guest to read it like that if you want to.

**A/N**: Ta da! It's finished. I would have had it up sooner but I did a bit of a rewrite. And I have exams. Minor inconvenience.

Thank you to people who have reviewed! And to those who have this on story alert – it makes me smile =D

**Points for**: Knowing the direct allusion to one of ACD's stories.

* * *

Nine days.

Nine days since you pulled him from that hell hole. Three since you both returned to Baker Street. You had wanted to leave earlier, but Sherlock's unpredictable behaviour had made it impossible. As it was you both hardly survived the journey home in one piece. For the third time in as many days, you mind flits over what you may as well start calling the 'Perilous' – no – 'Death Defying Adventure from Cardiff to London'.

Half way home he had started yelling and swearing at you, telling you how much of a shit friend you were because you were driving and didn't book plane tickets, even though you had discussed with him the day before why this was impossible. Medical issues were always more difficult to deal with on a plane, and they wouldn't let him fly if his abused brain chose at that moment to have a freak out.

You had tried to remind him of this but he wasn't having any of it. When he actually tried to grab the wheel you had to pull over and let him ride it out. You wished, not for the first time, that you could give him a sedative. You also wished he would concede to going to a hospital. But he had been adamant on both accounts. No hospitals, no drugs. He was doing this cold turkey and both your nerves were paying the price.

"Sherlock, I need you to calm down." You've lost count of the amount of times you've made this spiel. "The anger you're feeling is from the withdrawal-"

"Shut up, why don't you just SHUT UP! You don't know how I'm feeling, you don't know ANYTHING! You're...stupid! You STUPID BLOODY IDIOT! You haven't even the slightest sense of how I work, how I function because your pathetic little brain is too diminutive to be able to grasp it! Why the hell are we in a car? We _could_ have caught a plane, we'd be _home_ by now but instead you choose to shove me into this box. Do you ever even _think_? Of course you don't! I HATE YOU!"

You had tried to keep an impassive face. Let it wash over you. It was like watching a five year old having a tantrum. You took a deep breath. You needed some air.

Your belt was off and you were out of the car before you realised it. He was out of the car a few moments later – it would have been sooner but he'd forgotten his own seatbelt was on.

"I'm sorry," he was saying, chest heaving from the screaming marathon, "I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm really, really sorry." He may not have been yelling any more, but he looked mortified, running a hand through his hair like he expected you might run off and leave him at any moment. It was not a comforting alternative.

"It's alright, Sherlock," you breathed towards the ground. You were leaning on the boot of the car, trying to calm your racing heart and gather your thoughts. "It's fine." Then, when he continued to hover, "Can you please just go back and sit in the car? Please?"

You were begging and you knew it, but you didn't care. You were miles past caring. He looked at you, lost, before slowly complying with your request.

Five minutes later you sat back down in the driver's seat. He was holding your bottle of water with both hands, lid off and staring at it intently. Okay, then. His eyes flicked towards you. Without warning he attacked it ferociously, forcing the liquid into his mouth and trying desperately to swallow it.

"Whoa!" You had reached over and wrenched the bottle from his hands. He gagged and the water spilled down his front. "Jesus," you looked at him incredulously.

You had been trying to get him to drink something since he woke up in the Hub, but it was a futile effort. You weren't much surprised. He had been soaking in fetid water for over a week, and wanted nothing to do with any kind of liquid.

You had been begging him to try drinking something. Just a sip, but there was no give, and the drip had stayed in for longer than you had wanted it to. And now he had jumped straight into the deep end without warning.

Well of course he did. He was Sherlock Holmes.

You let out a sharp laugh, but caught yourself when you realised. He looked at you and for a split second you thought he was going to cry. But his face broke into a familiar pursed-lip grin and he echoed your laugh with a snort.

And then you were both gone. You laughed so hard that you almost ended up with the rest of the water down your own front, which only made you both laugh even harder. It took a good five minutes to calm yourself down so you could drive again.

The rest of the trip had been interspersed with barely contained snorts of laughter. You were like children trying not to giggle in detention.

Arriving back at Baker Street had been a sobering affair, apparently, because after Mrs Hudson had hugged him viciously, he had escaped upstairs, looking positively panicked.

"He'll come round," you muttered, trying to sooth the worried and hurt look from her face before dashing off behind him.

You found him standing in the living room, staring at the mantelpiece.

"Mrs Hudson returned my skull," he intoned, with no discernable emotion.

The skull was indeed sitting above the fireplace. It had been a bone of contention (no pun intended...well, okay, maybe a little) ever since he had moved in. Mrs Hudson had said she didn't want it in her flat, but you knew better. She just used it for leverage when Sherlock was being particularly intractable. You'd even found it on her own mantelpiece once and had been sworn to secrecy about it. But Sherlock probably knew anyway.

"She's being _nice_." He spat, as if the word itself was sour.

"She was worried about you, Sherlock. We all were. Even Lestrade."

His jaw tightened at that. Maybe you should have left Lestrade out of it.

"Does he know, then?" His eyes were piercing.

"Of course he knows-"

"About the drugs, John, does he know about the drugs?"

"He knows you were drugged-"

"But does he know it wasn't me? I didn't want to do it. I thought-" His breathing was picking up again. You must have had this conversation a million times over.

"He knows, Sherlock." Your straight forward tone seemed to reassure him somewhat.

"Sit down," you invited, "I'll make a cuppa."

His eyes became cold.

"It's not for you, it's for me. Just...sit down. You'll feel better." Brilliant. Freaking genious you are.

You bring yourself back to the present by rubbing a hand over your face. You're exhausted. Completely and utterly. You've had to deal with the episodic symptoms over the last three days essentially by yourself. At least at the Hub there had been Gwen. And Jack. And Owen. Sherlock hadn't gotten particularly friendly with them but had tolerated their presence when you needed to sleep. You'd both been moved into makeshift guest quarters when the immediate danger was over, but had been itching to get out. Now you wanted them back.

The anxiety had been relatively simple to deal with. You'd dealt with it before in military colleagues and even in yourself. In Sherlock, though, it brought forth his frustration and anger, crescendoing into a screaming match that was usually either one sided or between himself and the contents of the flat. You'd become quite used to his normal tantrums so it was not so much of a stretch to merely avoid the maelstrom of objects that would go hurling around the room. At least he'd stopped throwing epithets at you, and he'd usually feel better afterwards. Sometimes, though, when he really got himself into a state, the anxiety would culminat in tonic-clonic activity – typical GHB withdrawal, you'd reassured him. Not quite full seizures, but frightening enough that Mrs Hudson liked to have you in the room when she was there too, ever since he'd almost fallen into the fireplace.

Sherlock hated them. Passionately. But you knew how to deal with them so the situation itself was manageable and he appreciated you not making a fuss.

The delirium was not so easy to handle. You didn't know when it would start or what it would involve, but it was never anything good. You had to confiscate his laptop when you caught him posting scathing and harsh messages onto his website, including how the police force could go 'Fuck themselves with their batons because their stupidity is beyond anyone's comprehension and Lestrade was attempting to take over London with a hatchet and screwdriver and is obviously in league with Moriarty and anyone would know this if only they'd just _think_!'

You still desperately hope that no one saw the post before you were able to delete it.

Another time was when Mrs Hudson had decided on providing a seafood dinner and Sherlock had started talking about oysters taking over the world. It wasn't immediately obvious that he was out of it, because there was no yelling, but he was so emphatic that Mrs Hudons had promised to buy up the entire store of oysters the next time she went to the shops in order to create a larger demand and subsequent supply. As she had pointed out, if they're inhabiting your stomach, then the likelihood of their world-domination is minimised quite substantially. Sherlock had looked stunned for a moment, before agreeing and declaring Mrs Hudson's savoir-faire to be exceptional. Then to your and your Landlady's immense surprise he had shot up, pulled her to a standing position and wrapped her in an urgent hug. You had been torn between prying him away and letting it play out, deciding on the latter when it seemed Mrs Hudson had it completely under control.

"Alright, alright," she had muttered while smoothing his back.

You may have laughed at the spectacle they made; a veritable giant engulfing a small, elderly lady; if it were not for the tears that threatened to fall from the both of them. You had started clearing the dishes instead.

You had encouraged the drinking. Of water, of course. He would be prone to dehydration anyway, but his little show in the car had not heralded the end of his hydrophobia. He only complied when you threatened to reconnect the drip. It had taken a couple of hours, though, to realise you needed to hang around to make sure he swallowed, instead of spitting it back into the cup when your back was turned.

The only reason you haven't given in and taken him to a hospital or detox clinic is because the episodes are becoming less frequent. It'll be over soon, you think, and tell him regularly. You seriously hope you're right.

A knock on the door pulls you from your reverie. Muffled voices filter up the stairs and your eyes flicker to Sherlock. He's lying on the couch, eyes closed. You know he's not asleep because his breathing's not quite deep enough but at least he's giving it a shot. You inwardly moan at the visitor because it's so rare for him to be lying still for five minutes. You decide that they should probably be forestalled and you mentally prepare an "I'm really sorry but now's not a good time" speech as you pad down the stairs, but the words stick in your throat when you see who it is.

Mycroft is speaking with Mrs Hudson and you feel a surge of dislike for the man. Now. He chooses to come visit now, nine days after his brother's abduction. Some concern.

"He's asleep and I'd like to keep it that way," you say, a little harsher than you wanted, but you don't feel guilty about it.

Mycroft turns to look at you.

"Ah, Dr Watson, it's so good to see you again."

"Yeah, well, I can't really say the same, I'm sorry to say." Mrs Hudson is giving you an incredulous look but you don't care.

Mycroft smiles briefly but it doesn't reach his eyes. It never does.

"You're angry," he says calmly and you want to slap him.

"It's been nine days."And that really says all there is to say.

He sighs and looks down at his feet.

"I was in Iran."

"He's your brother."

Mycroft looks back up at you and there's a glint of steel in his eyes.

"I'm well aware of that, thank you doctor. Who do you think instructed Torchwood in their rescue operation?"

Of course. Mycroft had his tentacles everywhere.

"You still could have come," you know you're being irrational, but it's been a bloody difficult few weeks.

Mycroft's smile is a little more genuine this time.

"And done what? Sherlock wouldn't have wanted me anywhere near him. You know that. I would have only made things worse."

And you know it's true. And you think you glimpse a flash of hurt on the face of the stoic older Holmes and your resolve disappears. You sigh and run a hand over your face.

"Yeah..suppose," you practically mumble.

"I have nothing but gratitude for you, doctor. I realise these past few weeks have been difficult. For all of you." He glances briefly to Mrs Hudson and you know she's been won over. You suppose you have been too. A part of your brain realises that it was probably in record time, but you really don't have the energy to care at the moment.

"He is sleeping, though."

"John?" A voice calls from the living room.

Mycroft smiles. "Not anymore."

=IIIII=

He needed a statement, Mycroft had said. But if you've read things right he's using it as a guise to check up on his younger brother. You think Sherlock probably knows this as well, so no one's really fooling anyone, but everyone plays along with it anyway. Ah, the life and times of the Holmes brothers. They can't do anything in a straight forward manner.

Sherlock complies far quicker than you expect but probably only because it'll get Mycroft out of the house sooner as opposed to later. He's sitting in his favourite armchair and Mycroft has yours. You hover behind Sherlock and hope you're conveying a sense of 'having his back', so to speak.

Mrs Hudson lit the fire earlier and it's serving as a good focus point for everyone in the room. As long as one can look at the fire there's little need to look anywhere else. Sherlock's been staring at it for about seven minutes now. Mycroft has his head on his chest, apparently waiting patiently. You wonder if you're going to spend the afternoon observing what could be, for all intents and purposes, a painting. It's completely without any notice that Sherlock begins his story.

"They made me think they'd abducted Mrs Hudson." He ran his hand over his mouth, as if he was surprised he'd said it. Mycroft doesn't give any indication that he's heard, but you know he's all ears.

"I don't...really remember anything between then and waking up in a foot of water." You think he's probably not telling the whole truth, but he's come a damn site closer now than over the past nine days.

"They would lower syringes down on a piece of string and they...told me to inject them. They...I thought they had Mrs Hudson and she was screaming because they were..." A thirty second pause with only the sound of the fire to fill it.

"I tried faking it once, but they..." His breath catches but he manages to steady it. "Screaming..." he gestures around his head and you understand precisely, even if he's not able to vocalise it.

"They threw down bread, sometimes, but I only caught it once. The rest of the time it fell in the water...I knew it was drugged. Both." His head twitches.

"You didn't have a choice," you say in a low voice. You hope it's at least marginally reassuring.

Mycroft lifts his head from his chest.

"Why do you think they didn't use John?" His question does not betray any emotion he might be feeling, but instead of being hurt or upset, it appears to bolster his brother, who finally looks at him.

"Probably because they knew I'd recognise the deception. I have experienced John's behaviours in all kinds of situations; apprehending thieves, speaking in court, watching Top Gear...being threatened by murderers. I know all his nuances, as anyone would, being in such close proximity to a person for almost three years. With Mrs Hudson though...but perhaps I should have known, there must have been something, some mistake they made pretending to be her -"

"Sherlock you were drugged to the teeth!" Your voice comes out a little harsher than you intended. His jaw becomes tight.

"So they were keeping you out of the way," Mycroft summarises, "While they went about attempting to infiltrate forensic units across the country. Well," he flashes a humourless smile, "At least they kept you fed."

"Yes, fed," Sherlock spits, staring once again into the fire. "Bread made from flour laced with GHB. And sometimes they were nice enough to throw down other things. Sheep intestines, for example. Rotting flesh...things..." The veins in his hands are standing out, the only indication that he has the chair arms in a vice grip.

You realise belatedly that Mycroft's comment was made purely to draw out more information and that his ability to manipulate is truly second to none. The thought isn't a comforting one. But perhaps it's what Sherlock needs, because after two steadying breaths, he continues.

"I tried to minimise risk of infection, but after a couple of days the water was..." His nose wrinkled in distaste and the sentence didn't need to be finished.

"Do you know the group who did it?" Mycroft is the champion of non-emotion, but you notice an edge to his expression and you know you never want to be on the wrong end of Mr Holmes' wrath.

"Torchwood gave us the essential pieces of information. I deduced the rest. They were a satellite group of humans and aliens attached to a Polish drug and crime-syndicate. The syndicate were plotting a way to infiltrate and compromise crime labs so they would have greater control over chain of evidence. This would simplify obtaining their ultimate goal, which is to provide a steady and unhindered flow of recreational and euthanasia drugs from the Eastern European market into the UK.

"I had been watching this group for weeks. Ever since noticing the discrepancy concerning the Forensic Anthropologist's wife and her handbag."

Mycroft gave his first genuine smile since the interview began.

"I also knew there were some issues concerning lost evidence and botched investigations. That's why it was essential that I attend the National Forensic Conference. Imagine my surprise, though, when I realised Torchwood was involved." He was staring almost accusingly at his brother.

So Sherlock did know about Torchwood, then. Well, of course he did.

"They weren't." Mycroft's smile is this time without mirth. "Well, not until you had gone missing, anyway."

Sherlock's eyes twitched.

"You don't control Torchwood."

"No one controls Torchwood." Mycroft's fingers interlace and come to rest on his abdomen. "But I have certain influences."

You almost roll your eyes. Of course he has.

=IIIII=

After Mycroft has left you decide to ask one more question. Just one more because it's been bugging you for a while now and he's been pretty open so far and you don't know when the next opportunity will be. He knows there's a question coming and almost imperceptibly braces himself.

"Sherlock, when you woke for the first time in the Hub, you said something. You asked what the opposite of clean was." His jaw clenches. "What did that mean?"

"Nothing. Childhood memory, that's all. Nothing."

And you know it's anything but 'nothing'. You keep going.

"You also kept repeating 'it wasn't me' over and over when we were bringing you up from the ruin. You were referring to the drugs."

He's edgy now and you know you've only got moments before he decides the conversation's over and it's not something you're likely to revisit.

"When we first met, you told Lestrade you were 'clean'. Multiple times."

Yep. Seconds now. Hit it hard.

"The opposite of clean is dirty, Sherlock," you say in a matter-of-fact tone, because this needs to get through. He flinches. And you know. And plough towards the finish line. "But that's just semantics. Taking drugs does not make you...unclean. It doesn't make you dirty. It just presents obstacles that are difficult to overcome."

Your words aren't soft or reassuring or laced with emotion. They're straight forward and factual. Data. God you hope that's how he sees them.

"I couldn't stop them," he bites.

"Of course not, you thought they had Mrs Hudson."

"They didn't."

"But you _thought _they did. You did the right thing."

"I spent a week in my own filth!" He roars, gripping the arm rests.

"And you survived it, Sherlock." You remain calm. The doctor. The professional. No matter how destroyed you are internally.

He scoffs. You sigh.

"One week, Sherlock. Just give it one more week and the physiological addiction will be broken and you'll be feeling better. And we can go madly rushing off to crime scenes and freaking the pants off Anderson and Donovan."

He snorts slightly but you think it's mostly for your benefit. At least he's trying. He wipes a sleeve under his nose. You're going to need to get him out of that habit.

"Will Mrs Hudson take my skull away then?"

He looks longingly over at the grinning face on the fireplace and you know he's only half joking. You smile anyway.

"That depends on whether you re-establish your habit of shooting walls. Besides, you know how lonely she'd be if he didn't go and visit once in a while."

It takes three seconds of silence before you both break into hysterical giggles. You're feeding each other so it quickly turns into rich, deep laughter. You know it's what you need to recharge your batteries. It's good and loud and long and much like the car ride from Cardiff, but this time it's not born of hysterics. Tears are rolling down your cheeks and you notice moments later that you're not the only one.

Mrs Hudson's not so positive, though, as she knocks only once before almost careening through the living room door.

"Is everything alright?" She looks horribly concerned, which causes you to laugh even harder. "John, Sherlock?"

You manage to pull yourselves together for a grand total of two seconds before you both fail hopelessly and break into another fit of laughter. Mrs Hudson huffs.

"Well if you're going to be like that..." and she marches back down the stairs, leaving you and your flatmate to suffer the indignities of uncontrollable mirth.

=IIIII=

It takes another two weeks for Lestrade to come up with a particularly interesting case and you are thanking every deity you know for the timely intervention. It's not a murder, but a particularly intriguing robbery at the British Museum that promises some interesting investigative potentials.

As you watch your friend dance around the 'Department of Ancient Egypt and Sudan' with a gleeful air you know he'll not only survive, but also recover. You know it. Because if anyone can, he can. Truism to a T.

And maybe, with any luck, you will too.

* * *

~fin

* * *

**A/N:**

So, you have questions? You don't think I filled in all the holes? Good, that's what I was aiming for. Here's to ambiguity of plot – it's rather new to me.

If they only offered marks for procrastination ability, I'd be top of the class. What did you do to procrastinate today? I wrote a 10 000 word fanfic. In _second person present tense!_

Do they even _have_ a fireplace? *shrug*


End file.
